


The Best Death in the History of Anything

by deviouskirin



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-27
Updated: 2013-03-27
Packaged: 2017-12-06 16:03:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/737533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deviouskirin/pseuds/deviouskirin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’d been eight months, three weeks, one day, seventeen hours, and forty-nine minutes since the last time Nate had been able to touch Brad.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Best Death in the History of Anything

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally posted to my LJ, and was written for this prompt from V:  
> desperation, Brad and Nate, they haven't touched each other for ages and they finally can, want to take their time but they don't!
> 
> Standard Disclaimer: do not own, no profits made, etc.

Nate has a plan.

It’s been eight months, three weeks, one day, seventeen hours, and forty-nine minutes since the last time he was able to touch Brad (the goodbye at the airport doesn’t count, public touching isn’t the same, it’s not what he craves), but Brad landed stateside early that afternoon and Nate’s current project is finished ahead of schedule and he has a plan. 

He hops on a plane, coughing up a ton of cash to get a direct flight instead of a dozen layovers, and calls Poke. There is a car waiting for him when he lands at LAX, and if he speeds down the PCH, who can blame him? Eight. Months.

Brad will be asleep, since it's going on three in the morning, but Nate still has a key, had remembered to grab it before he left. He’ll let himself in, and then get started. On the plan. Which is a good one, if he does say so himself.

The plan starts with Nate stripping down before crawling into Brad’s bed. It’ll save him the trouble later, and Brad never wears clothes the first day he’s back from deployment. So, bonus. Then Nate’s going to look at Brad, reaffirm all the details and make sure Brad didn’t leave out any injuries during their too brief, too few conversations over crackling phone lines, and he’ll hold off on actually touching him, will struggle against the desire to feel warm skin under his hands again, because he wants to savor the moment, the feeling. Nate wants to take his time, drag it out until he can’t remember that it’s been eight months, three weeks, one day, seventeen hours and forty-nine minutes.

The first thing he’s going to do, when he finally gives in to the _~~needneedneed~~_ desire to touch, is wake Brad up with a blowjob. Not only will it minimize the risk of Nate ending up with a black eye, he’s missed it. Missed the taste, the heavy weight of it on his tongue, the stretch of his jaw, the almost panic of _can’t-breathe-don’t-stop_ when Brad finally snaps, and takes control, focused on his own pleasure and not worrying about Nate because- yes. 

That’s what he’s going to do, and after that? Well, all he really knows is he’s going to take his time. Long and slow and drawn out, until he and Brad are both shaking with it, mindless, and it’s going to hurt, finally being able to let go and find release, it’s going to feel like they’re dying but it’s okay, because it will be the best death in the history of anything.

Nate has a plan.

Sadly, the plan doesn’t hold up to real life. Nate’s barely through the front door, soft click of it closing echoing in the dark, silent house Brad has on the beach. He takes a minute to let his eyes adjust, quietly toeing out of his shoes, and he doesn’t hear it. There are no creaks, no sound of bare feet padding across hardwood floors. One second he’s pulling off his second sock, and the next he’s face first against the wall, six foot plus of danger pressed along his back.

“Poke called?” Nate guesses on a gasp as Brad’s hands slide up under his shirt, fingers trailing across his stomach.

“Heard the cab,” Brad mumbles, burying his nose in the hair at the back of Nate’s neck. “Smelled your cologne.”

They barely make it to the couch, and Nate’s jeans are stuck around his ankle, Brad’s teeth on his neck as they thrust and strain against each other. It’s fast and dirty and hard, and it still hurts like dying when Brad wraps a fist in Nate’s hair as he pulls back, meeting his gaze, pupils blown until there’s barely any blue. He pulls, the sharp sting of pain making Nate moan as his hips stutter and he comes.

Things don’t go according to plan, but the mark of a good commander is his ability to adapt and adjust to changing situations, and despite the cooling mess on his stomach and the heavy, bordering on uncomfortable weight of Brad pressing him into the too soft cushions, Nate can’t help but grin. He has five months, six days, eighteen hours, and 41 minutes to touch and taste and enjoy, and Nate plans on making good use of that time.


End file.
